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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24265822">simple truth</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightwideopen/pseuds/nightwideopen'>nightwideopen</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, probably typos</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 23:20:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,653</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24265822</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightwideopen/pseuds/nightwideopen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint wears a lot of masks, he just doesn't wear them around Natasha.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>52</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>simple truth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>writer's block sucks but here's this</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The worst thing about dating Clint, Natasha thinks, is that he's really fucking good at pretending. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She noticed it the moment they met; the contrast between his easy smile and tight shoulders is a dead giveaway to his false bravado. Maybe she should lay off the body language reading, of being so attuned to the minutiae of facial tics and muscle twitches. But when it comes to Clint, it's the only way she could properly get to know him. And it's not because he's a </span>
  <em>
    <span>liar</span>
  </em>
  <span>. No, quite the contrary; Clint is painfully honest. Natasha has never known a more honest and open person. But he's only honest when he's caught being vulnerable, and Natasha hates cornering him in those moments but if she didn't, he'd bury it all far too quickly and go back to pretending.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The masks he wears are never ending.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she loves him. God help her, does she love him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She thinks about this as she watches him try to tie his tie. It's a cliche view over his shoulder and into the mirror. He hasn't noticed her hovering in the doorway, too focused on trying and failing to get the loop just right. He always messes up on the under, always has his tongue just sticking slightly out of his mouth, always needs Natasha to do it for him but never asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“At this rate we'll only be three hours late instead of two.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He meets her gaze in the mirror with a pout, dropping his hands from his tangled mess of a tie. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In my defense I was ready twenty minutes ago, this shit just doesn't want to cooperate. Do I really need to wear it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Natasha shrugs. “Probably not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.” He yanks it off and throws it back into his closet, then shuts it with a victorious flourish. “Good fucking riddance.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns to her with a grin that turns into a gaping expression as he takes in her purple dress. It's one of her favorites, with a swooping neckline and </span>
  <em>
    <span>pockets</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Plus, it's glittery. Clint's gape turns onto a frown.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aw, Tasha. The tie matched.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That's okay,” she says as she crosses the threshold to meet him. He looks ridiculous in a suit without a tie, but that's easily amended as she undoes the first three buttons and ruffles the collar of his shirt. Then she ruffles his hair just a little bit more so that it's artfully messy rather than nervously tousled, and presses a kiss to his lips. “There. Now you look good enough to eat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she pulls back he's wearing the same dazed expression he always is when she kisses him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She can't help but laugh. But it’s short lived because his expression is purely honest, and it's one of the things he promised – </span>
  <em>
    <span>promised </span>
  </em>
  <span>– wasn't pretending. He doesn't pretend to want her to make her stay. Not that he could </span>
  <em>
    <span>make</span>
  </em>
  <span> her do anything, he was sure to amend quickly, but he'd never fake it. He couldn't. He just still couldn't believe</span>
  <em>
    <span> she</span>
  </em>
  <span> wanted</span>
  <em>
    <span> him</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on.” Natasha grabs him by the hand and starts tugging him along. “We've got a long night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>+</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She notices that something is bothering him about two hours into the party.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clint always plasters on a smile before he enters a room full of people, no matter what. He'd been wrapped around Natasha’s shoulders in the elevator, draped over her so that she couldn't see his expression before the doors had opened to the party. But she knows, even as he walked ahead of her and gently pulled her into the fray of people, that his grin was as wide and sunshine-y as it always was when he knew he wasn't alone. It's the kind of smile that lights up a room, charming and boyish and comforting. Clint’s smile makes you want to tell him everything. Natasha has fallen victim to its secret spilling powers, and she's witnessed the phenomenon on no less than a dozen occasions. Clint is just like that. He's friendly, he's kind, he's </span>
  <em>
    <span>always fucking smiling.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Except for when he's not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's still smiling now, with his back pressed to a corner of Stark Tower's penthouse as he sips on his Sprite, painfully sober. Someone that Natasha doesn't recognize is taking his ear off, visibly intoxicated and making Clint's fists clench around his cup. It's happened before, it'll happen again, and Natasha knows that he'll extricate himself from the situation as soon as he can. She's tried the subtle savior thing, and Clint always takes it personally as a blow to his ego. He doesn't need saving, as he'd so angrily pointed out, he can take care of himself. So Natasha waits him out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't see her watching, doesn't meet her eyes across the room. Five minutes pass and one drunk idiot becomes two, backing Clint deeper into his corner. He's still smiling, less bright, but still polite, still contributing to the conversation as his shoulders creep up to his ears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Natasha waits five more minutes, watches as the smile becomes empty and forced, and puts her better judgement aside to wedge herself in between the two men that have made Clint visibly uncomfortable, visibly upset.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry boys, hope you don't mind that I steal my boyfriend for a second, Tony's looking for him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She's pretty sure that neither of them even notice her face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Natasha very carefully herds Clint out of the corner and away from the party into a quiet hallway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clint doesn't say a word.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks haunted in the way that she hates, the way that means he's thinking about something he'd rather not be thinking about.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's still smiling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never better.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>+</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they get home — to Clint's apartment, technically, but it's more like home than anywhere else Natasha ever been — Clint eats cereal in bed with his suit on and falls asleep with the bowl on his chest. Natasha does the normal person thing and changes, then eats, then scoops the bowl off of Clint's chest and gently wakes him up. He blinks awake with comically wide eyes, groaning dramatically and swatting at empty air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You gonna sleep in that? Not that you don't look great but you're gonna wrinkle it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thought you were gonna say it’s uncomfortable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it's pretty comfortable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Natasha huffs a laugh, then pats his arm so he'll sit up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anything is comfortable when you're this tired. Come on, at least just take it off and then we can sleep properly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes ma'am.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he does take it off, in slow motion if nothing else. But eventually he gets down to his underwear and flops into into the bed on his back, nearly smacking Natasha in the face in the process. She lifts up the duvet for him to get under, and he does, wriggling into the warmth until he's pressed entirely against her front with his arms around her middle and his nose pressed against her neck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Got anything you wanna talk about?” she prods gently after a moment. His hair still smells like the awful gel he'd put it in, but it's soft and worn from the night, ruffled by his fingers, no doubt. “You looked pretty tense back at the party.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why do we even go to those?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No idea.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clint hums. “Just gonna stay here forever. No more parties. No more people. Just me and you and my memory foam mattress.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is a pretty great mattress.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She falls quiet and waits him out, scratching gently at the base of his neck, letting him puff warm breaths against her shoulder. For as strong and indestructible as he may seem, he's got a gooey soft center and the easiest way to get to it is with silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wish I could get drunk,” he mumbles sadly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Clint–”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cuts her off with, “I don't want to</span>
  <em>
    <span> drink</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” which makes no sense. “I'm just tired of being sober.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Neither of those statements quashed my concern.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who the hell says quashed?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Clint, I'm serious.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So am I!” he snaps. His body is tense, muscles like live-wire that's about to start humming. “Just… I know how it sounds, okay? I'm not going to drink. I just need to say it sometimes.  Just let me be honest. I have to be honest with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” she whispers into his hair. “Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I'm sorry,” he says miserably.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don't be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She kisses the frown right from his lips and hopes that he doesn't try to apologize again. He's always</span>
  <em>
    <span> sorry</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He doesn't have to be. So she kisses him quiet, kisses him forgiven. She lets his greedy hands under her sleep shirt and retaliates with a playful tug on his hair. She plays coy and pretends to be surprised when he finds himself hovering over her with that same dumbstruck look on his face from earlier. From always. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You're so fucking beautiful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He says it like he doesn't mean to. Like he doesn't want to let the words slip out but if they stay trapped under his tongue he'll die. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Careful,” Natasha jokes with a smirk, “You'll give me a complex.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he's not joking. He's deadly serious. He kisses her mouth once, twice, kisses her cheek, her chin. Clint buries his face back into her neck and drops his weight on her with a frustrated sigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don't know how my head hasn't exploded from loving you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Natasha can't hide the hitch in her breath or the way her mouth drops open just slightly. It's scary, how Clint's clumsy words can throw her for a loop like nothing else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wears his masks all day long, playing pretend with everyone he meets. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But not with her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And maybe she's only infuriated by his pretending because no one will ever get to know the real Clint Barton. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The same way my heart hasn't from loving you back.”</span>
</p>
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